


Drop The Show

by O4amuse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Episode: s03e07 Fresh Blood, Episode: s03e14 Long Distance Call, Episode: s03e16 No Rest for the Wicked, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, First Time, M/M, Pre-Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Sad Sam, Scared Dean, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4597368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And this is exactly how you react when you’re terrified. And I mean, I can’t blame you. It’s just… I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fresh Blood

_“I’ve been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And this is exactly how you react when you’re terrified. And I mean, I can’t blame you. It’s just… I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again.”_

  
Sam sat in the dark room, a gun on the floor beside him and a clear line of sight to the door, waiting for Gordon Walker to come and kill them. Their conversation from earlier replayed over and over in his head. He'd been asking the impossible. Dean didn't show fear, not on his own behalf. He hadn't known how to for years, ever since Sam could remember. Always the confident big brother, keeping Sam calm with a grin and a quip. That kind of habit couldn't be unlearned just by asking. But now Sam could see the cracks around the edges of Dean's smile, hear the hollow echo in that insouciant laugh. It stabbed at his throat every time. He wanted - needed - to help but Dean wouldn't let him in. That had never been the dynamic between them before.

Dean had never been hell-bound before.

Sam dropped his head and buried his ragged breathing in the crook of his elbow. He wasn't crying. He wasn't. Hot despair - a roiling mix of grief and guilt and anticipated loneliness - clawed up the inside of his ribcage. He tried to swallow it back down and choked on breathlessness.

There was a rustle, heard through pounding eardrums, and Dean slid down the wall to sit beside him. Sam could feel his heat through their clothes, running hot as always. One hand slid across Sam’s shoulders, a sudden furnace against his skin.

  "Aw, Sammy, don't. I ain't worth breaking your heart over."

  "Shut up!" Sam choked, curling his fists. Did his brother really think so little of himself? Another stab in the gut, forcing a ragged sob out of him.

  "Ssh," Dean soothed, rubbing his hand in gentle circles across the nape of Sam's neck. "Easy, small fry. I got you. It's gonna be okay."

The old nickname broke the last remnant of Sam's control. He fell sideways against Dean's chest, buried his face in the strong curve of his brother's neck, and wept. It ripped out of him, raw and keening. The sorrow went down, down, to the root of his groin, as dark and crushing as the ocean. He wept for all the times they’d had together, all the times they never would. He wept for the torment that Dean would suffer. He wept for the burden of being left behind, of surviving alone.

Eventually, exhausted, he began to drift back to himself. Dean's arms were tight around him, holding them together with tense muscles. One hand cupped the back of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair. There was a low growling breath in his ear, as Dean tried to soothe him with the sound of his voice. Just as he had when Sam was little, frightened of the things he knew were waiting in the shadows. But Sam wasn't a child any more. He could hear the layers of pain lurking under that bass purr.

He sat up, scrubbing at his face, and Dean's hand slid to the base of his neck.

  "Better?"

  "I made your shirt wet."

  Dean shook him slightly. "Forget the shirt. Look at me." Sam reluctantly met his brother's green, green eyes, currently narrow with worry. "You can't do this, man. You'll make yourself sick."

  "What d’you expect me to do?" Sam snapped back, a little soggily.

  “Live, Sammy.” Dean shifted one hand to run a thumb gently across the damp skin under Sam’s eye. “That was kinda the point.”

  Sam leaned into the warm touch, eyelids fluttering shut. “What makes you think I’ll be any better at coping without you than you were without me?”

  “You’re the smart one.” Dean’s voice roughened. “Mister ‘full ride to Stanford’. Go back to that. No dumb deals, okay? You can’t follow my bad example. Promise me.”

Sam compressed his lips mulishly and Dean sighed. He dropped his hands and shifted his weight, preparing to leave. A flare of panic lit up Sam’s chest and he grabbed at a retreating wrist.

  “Please.”

  Dean looked at him for a moment and his eyes softened a little. “Okay.”

He settled himself more comfortably against the wall, legs stretched out with the shotgun balanced across his thighs. Sam nestled into his side, one hand resting on the muscled expanse of chest and his cheek resting in the dip of Dean’s shoulder.

  “Shirt’s still wet,” he murmured.

  Dean gave an exaggerated sigh and pushed him away slightly, sitting up straight. “Some people are never happy.” He stripped his top over his head and tossed it aside. “There.”

Sam pressed against the heat of his brother’s skin and closed his eyes, drinking in its vitality. His hand stroked sideways until he found the thud-thud thud-thud of Dean’s heart. Dean’s hand slowly slid down his back, long soothing strokes calculated to calm him down. Sam focused on that touch, on the heartbeat, on every place where they connected. Each point of pressure was proof that Dean was still here, still alive, still his. It had been a long time since he’d let himself be this weak, this needy. A long time since he’d touched his brother as he wanted to.

Heat began to spread lazily through him, pooling in his stomach and the base of his throat. He wasn’t calming down any time soon. Not with every nerve ending on edge, straining to be closer, closer. He tried to keep his breathing steady but he needed more oxygen. The fingers over Dean’s heart started moving of their own accord, light little circles brushing over skin just below the nipple. His breath was hot and moist against Dean’s collarbone. His legs were made of clay but electricity tingled through his arms.

Dean’s strokes grew slower and slower, then stopped completely. Sam could feel tension tightening the muscles under his cheek, speeding the beat under his hand.

  “Sam…” Dean cleared his throat awkwardly. “I should move. Get a clear bead on the window.”

  “You’re watching the door,” Sam said reasonably. He widened the circles his fingers were drawing. They brushed against an extremely hard nipple. Dean flinched.

  “We can’t both watch the door,” he said, and his voice was half an octave higher.

  “Mmm.” There was a pleasant tension building in Sam’s groin. He shifted forwards instinctively, pressing against the solid mass of Dean’s thigh.

  Dean drew in a ragged breath and held it. “Sam…”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not interested.” Sam ran his hand in a suddenly firm sweep down Dean’s stomach, feeling the muscles contract in his wake, and covered the hard length straining against Dean’s jeans.

  Dean choked. He grabbed at Sam’s wrist, yanking it away. “Dude!”

   Sam sighed and sat up. Dean started to roll free but Sam planted his hand firmly on his brother’s chest and leaned into it, pinning Dean in place. “I want you. Feels like you want me. We’re consenting adults. Where’s the problem?”

  “It’s fucked up.”

  “In the best way.”

  Dean pulled a bitch-face. “That isn’t funny, Sam.”

  “It’s a little funny. Look, I’m a demon-blooded freak and you’re going to hell.” Sam shifted his weight, sliding one knee between Dean’s legs. “How much more fucked up can we get?”

  Dean’s pupils flared but he set his jaw. “You’re my little brother.”

  “So I know you won’t hurt me.”

Sam leaned in slowly and pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. Dean stayed still, rabbit-in-headlights still, holding his breath. Sam brushed another kiss, and another, each one a fraction closer to the centre of those full lips. He could feel Dean’s skin shiver with every featherlight impact but the long body stretched beneath him remained rigidly locked. Sam pulled back and looked at his brother with mounting frustration.

  “Drop the show, Dean. Who’re you pretending for? I’ve seen you look at me first thing in the morning, or when I get out the shower, or when some monster’s trying to rip my damn head off. I know how you feel, okay? You sold your soul for me, for fuck’s sake. This whole repression act isn’t fooling anyone.”

  “You’ll regret it tomorrow.” Dean’s voice was a thread of tired, terrified sound.

  Sam swallowed in pain and his next kiss was anything but gentle. “I’m lying on top of you,” another kiss, “stone cold sober,” and another, “with my dick hard against your hip,” and another, “desperate to taste you. I’ve been desperate to taste you for fucking years. Why the hell would you think I’m gonna regret it?”

  “It’s wrong. Incest.” Dean stumbled over the word. “I know you too, Sammy. You gotta be upright in your own eyes. This’ll eat you up from the inside.”

  “Ah.” Sam sat back. “And thinking you did that to me will eat you up.” He smiled tenderly at his brother and ran a thumb over Dean’s slightly parted lips. The tremor ran right through Dean’s thighs and up into Sam. “There’s things we do that I hate. Things where the line between right and wrong is so hazy you couldn’t spot it with a telescope. But love…” Another swipe of his thumb, another shudder, “... where no one’s hurt by it, love isn’t one of them.”

  “This kinda love -”

  “Nobody cares, Dean. Nobody cares what we do except us.”

Sam leaned in and pressed a hungry, pleading kiss against Dean’s mouth. For a moment he thought he’d won. A growl rippled through Dean’s chest. He grabbed Sam’s arms with vice-like hands and rolled them. Sam was pinioned between Dean’s knees and beneath his powerful grip. Dean bit ungently on Sam’s lower lip before plunging into his mouth, tongue demanding, imperious. Sam sighed with pleasure and gave himself up to the heat of his brother’s body.

Then it was abruptly gone. Sam opened his eyes to see Dean on the far side of the room with his back turned, leaning heavily against the wall with both hands. His head was dropped and Sam could hear him panting.

  “Dean?”

  “I can’t.” He sounded wrecked.

   Sam got slowly to his feet, awkward around his throbbing cock. He crossed the space between them as quietly as he could and placed a light hand on Dean’s shoulder. The flinch hurt him but he held on. “Why?” he asked gently.

  “If I have you, I won’t…”

  “You won’t what?”

  A long silence, then “I won’t be able to let go.”

  “Let go of what? Of living?” Sam’s pulse sped up. He hauled Dean round to face him. “Good! You haven’t fought against this stupid crossroads deal at all. D’you know how angry that’s made me? Have me, fight with me. Where’s the downside?”

  “The downside?” Dean’s eyes narrowed with temper. He wrenched Sam’s hands loose and shoved him back a step. “The downside is you die, Sam. I fight this, I try to get out of it, you go back to being stabbed through the back. You want me to drop the show? Fine. I made this deal to save you, and the idea of hell scares me so bad I can’t breathe sometimes, but I ain’t fighting because it’ll kill you. D’you know how hard it is for me not to fight? And all you do, on and on, is nag me to fix it, like you think I just need to want to. Well, only one of us is coming out of this alive, and the sole thing I want more than to fight is to have you breathing at the end.”

  Sam stared at him; the bunched muscles, the tight jaw, the heaving chest. He swallowed. “Dean -”

  “So I’m gonna sit on my hands. I ain’t gonna go down swinging, and I ain’t gonna sink into you like I’ve dreamed about for fucking forever.” Dean’s cheeks were wet and his growl had dropped deeper. “Though now I know you’d let me, you’d beg me, and God, the thought of you begging me… but I ain’t even gonna touch you, Sammy. Coz I know you think I’m tough but I got my breaking point like anybody else and you’re it. You’ve always been it.”

Sam couldn’t speak. He floated, empty as a reed, on the tumult of words. The room was dark, degrees of shadow cast by the porchlight outside, and the darkness was cotton wool wrapping his ears and throat and mouth. There was an ache in his chest but he felt it dimly, at a distance. Even his pulse sounded far off, like an underground train. He just stood as the water rose up through his chest and silently choked him.

And then the phone rang. Gordon, summoning them to the aid of a girl that ended up dying anyway. Sam took his head off with barbed wire, barely feeling the spikes deep in his own flesh. It was Gordon’s fault, what had happened, Gordon’s fixation on killing Sam that had brought all that hurt and frustration and despair out into the open. Gordon’s phone call that had come a little too late, a little too early, cutting off his chance to make things easy with his brother.

Dean didn’t touch him again. He let Sam touch his baby, showed him how to fix her, but he did it from a distance. And Sam didn’t know how to close that gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving kudos! It makes writers happy. :-)


	2. Long Distance Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m staring down the barrel at this thing. You know. Hell. For real, forever and I’m just… I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared. I can’t expect dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can’t expect anybody to. The only person who can get me out of this thing is me.”

  “I’m staring down the barrel at this thing. You know. Hell. For real, forever and I’m just… I’m scared, Sam. I’m really scared. I can’t expect dad to show up with some miracle at the last minute. I can’t expect anybody to. The only person who can get me out of this thing is me.”

Sam looked at his brother, sitting an arm’s length away on the corner of his bed. The sight made him sick to his core. He’d known Dean was scared, because that was logical. But he hadn’t felt that fear, hadn’t realised Dean was properly feeling it, because Dean didn’t do fear. Yet here he was, armour partially down, enough to say it out loud and show a flash of it in his eyes.

  Sam swallowed hard. “And me.”

  Dean wavered for a moment. Sam could see him wavering, on the cusp of letting Sam in, letting him help, and all that might entail. Then: “‘And me’? Deep revelation, having a real moment here, that's what you come back with? ‘And me’?” _Make it a joke, Sammy, let me laugh it off. I don’t wanna feel like this._

If that was the only way Sam was allowed to help, he wasn’t going to turn his back on it. He gave the flippant answer Dean wanted, buried the rest with the ease of long practice. They downed a beer each, watched half a crap film and went to bed in accustomed silence.

But Sam couldn’t sleep. He kept hearing the tiny break in his brother’s voice, “I’m scared, Sam,” over and over and over. Words that didn’t belong together in Dean’s mouth. He’d begged Dean to drop the show, sure, but it made everything more real. The prospect of Hell, all of it, he hadn’t really believed it would come to pass because Dean had been laughing it off so things couldn’t be that bad. They always found a way. Mainly because Dean said with absolute certainty that they would and his faith kept Sam trying, kept him digging.

If Dean believed in Hell enough to admit he was scared…

  “I can hear you thinking.” Dean’s voice came softly out of the darkness, two metres to Sam’s right. “Your brain makes these little squeaking noises, like a hamster wheel.”

  “Does not,” Sam said automatically.

  “Does too.” There was a pause. When Dean spoke again, he sounded… not pleading. Dean didn’t beg. But something like it. “I can’t talk about it, Sam. You can’t ask me.”

  “I can help.”

  “Not with this. I know you’re filled up with questions and ideas, that’s who you are, you can’t help it. But this… I need to be able to get up in the mornings. I need to do my job. If I let it in, it’ll paralyse me.”

  Sam rolled up onto an elbow and pushed his hair back in frustration. “But if we don’t do something -”

  “I let you try,” Dean cut him off. “I followed you round all those professors and psychics, and all it did was give me hope where there weren’t any. I can’t do that anymore, Sammy. It punches holes in my armour, and that’s all that keeps me upright and moving.”

  “Dean -”

  “Leave it, man. Please.”

The streetlight outside filtered dimly through the thin curtains, outlining Dean’s profile in muddy orange. His eyes were closed, his brow smooth. Sam thought about the day - scant months away - when he would look across at an empty bed. He only realised he’d moved when the cold air raised prickles across his chest and thighs.

  Dean opened his eyes with a frown. “Sam?”

  “Move over.” Sam grabbed the corner of Dean’s bedsheet and pulled.

  Dean grabbed futilely. “Dude, you’re not coming in.”

  “Move, Dean.”

Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and hip, and pushed. Dean slid across the cheap sheets with a loud ‘hey!’ of protest. Sam dropped into the imprinted heat left behind, stretching down past Dean’s toes and brushing against the scratchy heat of his brother’s legs. He put one arm behind his head and the other on the mattress between them, carefully not touching Dean.

  “What the hell, man?”

  Sam closed his eyes. “Go to sleep.”

  “I was trying ‘til Gigantor invaded. One bed not enough for you?”

  “This is comforting.”

  “What are you, three?”

  “I didn’t mean my comfort.”

  That earned a moment of silence. “Sam…”

  “I get you can’t talk about it. I even get why. But I’ve got to help somehow.”

  “You think cuddling like a pair of big girls is gonna help?”

  “I’m here, Dean. I’m here, and safe, and alive. As long as you can feel that, you know you’re still alive too. Maybe it’ll help with the nightmares.”

  “I don’t have nightmares.”

  “Sure.”

Dean muttered a bit more, mostly under his breath although Sam did catch ‘pain in the ass little brother’ and ‘giraffe legs’. There was a brief power struggle over the covers which Dean won by rolling over and taking them with him. He gave a victorious growl and then seemed to settle. Sam waited until his breathing evened out into sleep, and then tugged gently. The sheets resisted until, unconsciously obedient to their pressure, Dean rolled back. His arm flopped heavily across Sam’s chest. Sam froze at the contact, heat rippling through him, but Dean didn’t wake. Sam carefully covered them both with the newly free sheet, dropped a feather-light kiss on his brother’s head, and let himself drift.

He woke abruptly some time later, already reaching for the gun under his pillow. An unfamiliar weight threw him off and he struggled through the last strands of unconsciousness. Dean’s head was still on Sam’s shoulder. He’d pulled his arm in tight against his ribs. His hair was spiky with sweat although his core temperature felt like it had dropped a couple of degrees. His eyelids twitched rapidly, his breathing was harsh, and Sam could feel tension radiating through his upper body. Sam thought about waking him, but this wasn’t too bad and he needed the sleep. It could wait until he started talking.

Despite Dean’s protest earlier, Sam was fully aware of his brother’s frequent nightmares. Hunters couldn’t afford to sleep deeply, so any noise brought Sam out of it on alert. Dean had been moaning pretty much every night for months now.

   A few minutes later Dean’s hand clenched sharply. “No,” he groaned. Not a denial, a plea.

  Sam wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist in a firm hold. “Dean, wake up. Come on, man, it’s okay.”

  Dean lashed out automatically. The confusion when his fist barely moved was, Sam thought to himself, adorable. He blinked muzzily. “Sam? What’re you-”

  “You were having a nightmare.”

  “You’re in m’bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Kay.” Dean stretched up, all relaxed muscles and sheen of sweat, and kissed Sam full on the lips.

   _He’s still asleep_ , Sam told himself firmly. That didn’t stop the tidal wave of love from sweeping through his body, leaving him trembling. He curled his arms tightly around Dean, protecting him, holding him, keeping him. Clamped his molars together against the whip of desire, kept his tongue caged, and returned the kiss as chastely as he could.

The moment Dean went rigid, Sam let go and eased back against the pillow. Green eyes, now fully awake, looked at him with something akin to panic.

  “Shit. Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

  “You were having a nightmare,” Sam said again, keeping his voice calm despite the tangle of want and pain in his head. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine, dammit.” Dean pushed himself upright. “I said I wouldn’t-”

  “Dean.” Sam reached for his brother’s shoulder and then pulled back, not wanting to see him flinch away again. “It’s fine. Really. What were you dreaming about?”

Dean hooked his elbows over his knees, head low. His curved spine was outlined in the orange glow of the streetlamp. Sam’s eyes traced every bump of vertebrae, every twist of scarred skin. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He breathed deep.

  “I was a demon,” Dean said at last, his voice soft. “Back when we took that dream root stuff, d’you remember? That’s what I saw. Myself as a demon. That’s what I’m gonna become, Sammy. That’s what Hell’s gonna turn me into.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I believe it.”

  “The root didn’t show us the truth, just what we dream of.” No response. Sam sat up, not touching his brother but close enough to feel the heat of his skin. “I get it. You can stomach the idea of pain, but turning into a monster? That’s what you’re really afraid of. I understand, you know I do.”

  “Would you hunt me?” Dean said, staring at his fists. “If I came topside… would you take me out?”

  Now Sam risked touching him. He slid an open palm across Dean’s tight shoulders, touched a soft kiss to his shoulder-blade. “Yes.”

  Dean turned his head to meet Sam’s eyes. “Promise?” 

Gently, slowly, Sam eased him down. Dean lay flat on his back, still too tense, so Sam curled on one side and rested a hand on Dean's clavicle, an anchor to reality. He closed his eyes and tried to sink back into sleep.

  “Sam,” Dean said after a while, soft enough not to wake.

  “Mmmm?”

  “About the kiss…”

  “I said it’s fine. Three times now.”

  “I just… don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “Didn’t.”

  A pause, then: “Maybe you should go back to your own bed.”

  “Nu-uh.”

  “Sam…”

  Irritated, Sam pushed the promise of sleep aside. “Oh, shut up. I know you think you’re irresistible but credit me with some self control. I’m staying every night from now on, and I promise not to ravish you, okay? Jerk.”

  He could feel some of the tension flow out of Dean’s muscles. A warm hand slid over his, squeezed briefly and retreated. “Bitch.”

   _Thank you_ , Sam thought with profound relief, and went back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving kudos! It makes writers happy. :-)


	3. No Rest For The Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sammy, all I’m saying is you’re my weak spot. You are. And I’m yours. What we’ll do for each other? How far we’ll go? They’re using it against us. So we stop being martyrs, man, we stop spreading it for these demons. We take this knife and we go after Lilith our way. And if we go down, then… then we go down swinging. What d’you think?”

“Sammy, all I’m saying is you’re my weak spot. You are. And I’m yours. What we’ll do for each other? How far we’ll go? They’re using it against us. So we stop being martyrs, man, we stop spreading it for these demons. We take this knife and we go after Lilith our way. And if we go down, then… then we go down swinging. What d’you think?”

Sam held Dean’s gaze for as long as he could. Waves of hot and cold washed over him. Fear, yes, the ever-present fear of loss, but now with a fierce edge to it. Dean was finally talking about fighting back. And… something else? Surely those green eyes were asking for more than just an answer. What had he said before?

_I ain’t gonna go down swinging, and I ain’t gonna sink into you._

Sam swallowed hard and looked away, suddenly self-conscious. Colour washed up his neck to his jaw-line. His voice, when he spoke, was so tight that it came out as a whisper.

  “I think you totally shoulda been jamming _Eye of the Tiger_ right there.”

  “Oh, bite me,” Dean said, scowling. Was that disappointment, rather than the usual relief at Sam breaking the tension with a joke? He stood up to finish packing the weaponry. “I totally rehearsed that speech, too.”

Sam looked down at his hands with a soft laugh. Did he dare risk it? What if he was misreading Dean, and made a move, and they spent their last few hours together feeling so awkward that they could barely talk? On the other hand, what if they spent some of their last few hours _together_ , finally, the way they’d both wanted for so long? If he did nothing, Sam could see years of empty nights filled with regret ahead of him.

He suddenly realised Dean had just asked him a question, and he had no idea what it was. He looked up blankly and Dean’s mouth twisted a little.

  “Am I boring you?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking.”

  “Yeah, I could hear the wheel squeaking.” Dean zipped up his duffel bag. “You gonna sit there all day, or help me pack?”

  “Dean…” Sam stood up slowly, the movement automatically bringing him into his brother’s space. “What you said about going down swinging…”

  Dean’s busy hands went still and silent. A muscle moved under his jaw. Then he turned deliberately, chest to chest, his upturned mouth inches from Sam’s. “Yeah.”

  Sam’s breath caught. “Did you-”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, do you wanna-”

  “Yeah.”

Dean grabbed Sam’s head between both hands, fingers curling into his hair, and pulled him down into a bruising kiss. There was no subtlety, no tenderness, just heat and demand and urgency. Sam wrapped one arm around Dean’s shoulders and drank in his brother’s burning lips, the smoky aftertaste of coffee, the wet velvet of Dean’s tongue against his. Their bodies pressed against each other, magnets drawn together. Sam’s nipples, sensitive through three layers of clothing, rubbed against Dean’s chest and he gave a low moan. His right hand found the blazing satin of Dean’s skin under the t-shirt, and curled over muscled ribs. He felt a tremor run through Dean’s body. Their hips met, and met again. Pressure was building in Sam’s groin, driving out his ability to think. He ground against Dean’s thigh, fingers kneading.

   Dean broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, lips gleaming. He framed Sam’s face in tender fingers and held his gaze. “Last time of asking. You sure about this?”

  Sam exhaled a shaky laugh. “God, yes.”

  “You ever done anything like this before?”

  “I don’t like guys, Dean. Just you.”

  “Oh, Sammy…” Dean pressed Sam’s forehead against his, eyes closed. “My Sammy. I’m gonna make you beg.”

Sam felt dizzy. He couldn’t think. His skin shivered under Dean’s touch, straining into it, craving more. He pulled away abruptly, struggling out of his jacket and shirt. Dean watched him with spreading pupils as he wrenched his t-shirt over his head.

  “Stop.” Dean’s voice was distant thunder.

  Sam froze, forearms raised high and tangled in cloth.

  “Stay.”

Dean raised one hand slowly. He ghosted a single fingertip down the column of Sam’s throat, leaving a trail of fire. Calloused pads skimmed the smooth curve where neck became shoulder, and out along his collarbone. They circled in the hollow below his clavicle and he dragged in a shaky breath. They outlined the shape of his pectorals, dragging a rough palm over the nipples in passing, and he bit off a groan. Dean paused for a moment, then tweaked Sam’s nipple sharply. Sam shuddered and shut his eyes. Dean made a satisfied noise. Then wet heat swept over Sam like a tidal wave. He choked and looked down in time to see Dean tonguing his other nipple. Electricity zigzagged from chest to groin. He tugged his arms free, dropping his t-shirt, and pulled desperately at Dean’s clothes.

  “I got it.” Dean stripped to his waist in seconds, daylight gleaming off the curve of his muscles.

  Sam ran a reverent palm down his brother’s side. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Dude,” Dean said in disgusted tones. “That’s what you say to a girl.”

  “I mean it.” Sam slid his other hand round the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him close. “You’re the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

  “Shut up.”

Dean stopped Sam’s mouth with hungry lips, taking short, biting kisses that drove him backwards until his thighs were hard against the table. Dean crowded in close between his legs, grinding their groins together hard. Sam gasped, vision stuttering, as he felt the solid ridge of Dean’s cock rub against his. The throbbing, the need, took his breath away. Dean growled something under his breath and his hands reached urgently for their belts.

When Sam felt his brother’s hand wrap around his cock, he thought he might pass out. Lust choked him, stealing the strength from his legs. He sagged against the table, head tipped back on a moan, as Dean jerked him off with strong, steady strokes. Sam could feel the tension building, a thunderstorm under his skin, drawing every muscle tight from his toes upwards. His breath shortened. His hands gripped and regripped the edge of the table.

  “Dean… oh god, Dean… uh, uh, uh…”

  “Say please, Sammy.” Dean’s bass growl in his ear sent a white-hot shiver down his spine. “Give it up for me, nice and sweet.”

  Sam flailed for control. “Not… not gonna beg.”

  “No?” There was a dark note in Dean’s voice that made Sam’s throat clench. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

He grabbed Sam’s shoulders and spun him to face the table. Dean dropped to his knees, taking Sam’s jeans down with him. Sam felt a hot, wet line stroke up between his buttocks, and the breath punched out of him. He slammed his hands down on the table, gasping. Dean’s hands gripped both cheeks and lifted them outwards. His tongue swiped again, deeper this time, skimming over Sam’s hole.

  “Fuck, oh god, fuck, Dean.”

  “Oh, I will,” Dean promised roughly.

He prised Sam’s ass wider. This time he lingered over Sam’s hole, licking, delving, exploring the tight, hot ring of muscle. Sam spread his legs as far as the hampering jeans would let him, shivering and panting with need. His cock rubbed against the surface of the table, desperately seeking pressure. He didn’t know what he wanted, just that he wanted.

  “Dean, I need… fuck, I… I need…”

  “What’s the magic word?”

Then Dean slid a spit-soaked finger inside him and Sam couldn’t find the right word, any words, any air. He clenched helplessly as his brother slowly probed deeper and deeper inside him. As the digit withdrew, it brushed over his prostate. Sam bucked, vision whiting out, his cock leaking pre-come.

  “Fuck!”

  “Say please, Sammy.” Dean slid another finger in, gently scissoring him open, and stroked his prostate again.

  Sam threw his head back, eyes and jaw clenched. “Dean…. fuck, please, Dean, please, inside me, I need… oh god…”

  Dean got to his feet and stroked a hand down Sam’s flank before gripping his hip tightly. “It’s okay, brother, I got you.”

The fingers withdrew, leaving Sam bereft, head hanging. Through the pounding in his eardrums, he heard Dean tug something out of his pocket and pop a lid. Then there was a cold, wet sensation rubbing over and around his hole.

  “Ready?”

  “Stop being such a fucking cocktease,” Sam snarled.

  There was a low chuckle. “I love it when you get all bossy.”

Dean’s fingers sank into Sam’s hip. Sam felt something rub up against his hole and he spread his legs still further, dropping his weight onto his elbows. Dean’s cock nudged into the resistance of tight muscle and stopped. Sam hissed in frustration. He clenched his fists and pushed back hard. The head of Dean’s cock slid into him, filling him, splitting him, hot and hard and still coming, more and more, until Dean was buried in him up to the hilt, crying out in a broken voice, and Sam could feel every pulse of need reverberate through them both.

  “Sam… Sam… Sam…”

Dean folded over Sam’s spine, wrapping around him. Sam could feel the tension coiled in his thighs, keeping still. Trying to go slow, trying to be gentle. Sam didn’t want gentle. He wanted to feel used, irresistable, he wanted to drive Dean right over the edge of control.

  “Fuck me,” he said hoarsely.

  Dean’s breath caught. “Sam…”

  “I said fuck me, Dean. I can take it. I want it. Ride me. Make me come on your cock. God, make me scream.”

  He felt Dean press a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. “Love you, Sammy,” his brother whispered.

Then Dean’s hands regripped Sam’s hips. He withdrew and thrust again, all the way in, angling against Sam’s prostate. Sam clenched as pleasure ripped through him, and Dean thrust up into him again.

  “So hot and tight…” Dean said, his voice wrecked. “Oh god, so good for me, Sam, so fucking tight. Gonna fill you up, gonna sink into you, over and over, make you mine, you’re mine, Sammy, you were made for me…”

Sam’s body clenched around the pounding of Dean’s cock, He punched back to meet every thrust, his breath coming shorter and shorter. Sweat sheened on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, imagined what it looked like where Dean sank into him, imagined the slide of needy flesh into him, the rippling of Dean’s muscles as he thrust, again and again and again. The moment was curling under his skin, tighter and tighter, gathering urgency.

  “Oh god, fuck, Dean, harder, harder, Dean, fuck, Dean… Dean… Dean… god… fuck… Dean!”

Sam came on a groan that was ripped out of his chest, his cock pulsing stripes of white across the table. Every muscle rippled and clenched. Dean slammed his hips forward with a yell, coming in a rush that sent warmth spreading through Sam’s abdomen. He could feel Dean’s pulse throbbing against his skin.

  “Christ, Sam…” His brother panted, hands easing up onto his back in little circles.

  “Yeah.”

They remained still for a moment, basking in the afterglow. Sam felt stretched, a warm burn of exertion in unfamiliar muscles. His heart was so full of love he could barely breathe.

   _Yours_ , it said with every beat. _Yours, yours, yours. Always yours. Forever yours._

  Dean pulled Sam gently upright against his chest and pressed a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. _Mine. For a few hours more, mine._ Then he pulled out and hauled his jeans up. “That’s enough cuddling. We got bitches to gank.”

  Sam turned and gave him a final deep kiss, tangling tongues in a fierce promise of success. “I love your idea of pillow talk.”

  “What, you want flowers?”

  Sam grinned and reached for his shirt. “Maybe later. Once we’ve won.”

  “Sounding pretty confident there, Sammy.”

  “I’ve got everything to fight for.” Sam caught his brother’s wrist and held his gaze. “So do you. Don’t let me go, Dean.”

Dean smiled but didn’t reply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving kudos! It makes writers happy. :-)


	4. Lazarus Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby’s arms were round him, hauling off and forcing the knife from his fist. “It’s him, Sam, it’s really him.”  
> Sam felt a crack in the shell of his rage. A whisper of pain leaked through and he staggered. “Dean?”  
> “I know.” That smile. “I look fantastic.”

That smile haunted Sam for four months. It tore into his mind like a flogging whip. He remembered it when he carried Dean’s body out to the Impala, blind with tears, stumbling in agony. He remembered it when he cleaned his brother’s body, laying him tenderly on a blanket in the middle of a copse and sponging blood from his ragged chest and thighs. The water in the bucket was dark brown before Dean’s cold skin was clean. Sam sewed his wounds closed with shaking fingers, as he had so often before.

He dug the grave alone. It took longer without Dean helping.

Bobby called, demanding to know where they were, what had happened, was Dean okay? Sam hung up without a word. He sat next to his brother, looking blankly down into the open grave. Dean didn’t belong in there. He belonged with Sam.

It was dawn by the time Bobby found them. He looked at the boys - Dean held against Sam’s chest with rigid arms, and Sam’s blank, staring face - and sighed with an echo of his own pain.

   “Sam,” he said gruffly, standing in front of him, “we have to salt and burn him.”

   “No,” Sam said distantly.

   “You know the drill, son.”

   “No.”

   “Sam…”

   Sam looked up, the blankness starting to recede. “He needs a body to come back to.”

   “He ain’t coming back, boy,” Bobby said, as gently as he could.

   Sam hugged his brother tighter. “He is. He’s coming back. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get him back.”

In the end Bobby drove off in search of a coffin, or wood to make one. Sam lay on the blanket, his head on Dean’s shoulder, and watched the clouds passing overhead. He could feel the grief clawing at his chest, leaving wounds to match Dean’s, but distantly. His mind was a cloud, adrift, apart and unaccepting of the physical world. He didn’t belong on a planet that had no Dean.

That smile. Full of love, and faith in his little brother’s abilities to save him. A faith Sam had failed.

   Sam became aware of water on his cheeks. He raised a slow, stumbling hand and wiped the tears away. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

   No answer. No ‘it’s okay, Sammy’. It would never be okay again. The clawing crept closer. Sam curled on his side and rested one hand over Dean’s silent heart, as if they were back in bed. The last time. No, not the last time. He wouldn’t let it be the last time.

   “Come back, Dean,” he whispered. “Come back to me. Please… please come back to me.”

Bobby returned with a coffin and shook him awake, but said nothing about how he was curled up into his brother. Said nothing when he took the amulet and hung it around his own neck. Said nothing when Sam pressed a final, lingering, pleading kiss on Dean’s unmoving lips. They nailed the coffin loosely shut and lowered it down in silence. They filled the grave in silence. In silence, Sam got into the Impala - her back seat still speckled with dry blood - and drove away. His brother wasn’t in that copse any more. Sam needed to go and find him.

That smile. Bittersweet and calm. The smile of a man who had given in to his last temptation and made his peace.

Sam bargained; he begged. He ripped demons to shreds and promised them all he had or could get. He hunted and exorcised every day and night until he was ready to drop, but it wasn’t enough. No matter how exhausted he was, the empty bed still closed around his chest like a bear trap and held him conscious, a prisoner in the dark, lonely room. He cried himself to sleep for a fortnight, until there were no tears left in him. After that, he burned.

He fucked Ruby. It was hard and dirty and left him feeling hollow. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t Dean. But the bed wasn’t empty.

The Impala was better and worse. She smelled like Dean; the music sounded like him; the purring revs were his happy noises. Yet the seat next to Sam remained vacant. It caught him out over and over. He glanced right to check on his sleeping brother; he paused during a song to let Dean take the tune; he winced in expectation of his brother’s outrage when he misjudged a parking distance and smashed a rear light. The silence stabbed him in the throat each time.

Ruby kept him grounded in reality. She gave him a purpose - train hard enough to take on Lilith. And he didn’t have to watch his temper around her. If he was rude or vicious, if he lashed out or broke down, it didn’t matter. She was just a demon. Besides, she gave as good as she got which was a lot easier to handle than Bobby’s wounded expression and patient understanding. Sam didn’t want kindness. It risked breaking through the shell of his rage, and he knew he’d stop functioning completely if that happened.

That smile. The smile Dean gave when he didn’t want to lie.

Sometimes he dreamed of hell. Of Dean screaming, or dying in his arms over and over, or torn to pieces on the rack. They weren’t pleasant dreams but they were better than the alternative. Because sometimes he dreamed that everything was fine. Dean was asleep next to him, back turned and hair rumpled. Or awake and playing that damn Asia song. Or stroking him gently, whispering his name in his ear. Pressing a hot mouth to his neck, his nipples, a teasing feather-touch to his cock. Sam awoke from those dreams, hard and aching, and the reality crashed into him like a freight train. It was like losing Dean all over again, every time. He began to understand what the Trickster had meant about practice. Hated the demi-god for that understanding.

Four months after Dean’s death, Ruby answered the door for the pizzaman.

Sam’s first thought was: DEAN.

Except it wasn’t really a thought. It was the cessation of every other thought, like how to walk or breathe or feel. He stopped - all that was left was Dean. Dean, standing in the doorway, whole and perfect and beautiful. Dean, his green eyes bright with love. His velvet voice wrapping around the syllables of Sam’s name. Breathtaking. Incredible. Unbelievable.

Sam’s first _coherent_ thought was: KILL.

How dare it? How _dare_ it take Dean’s face? How _dare_ it use his dead brother’s body to get close? He’d make it pay with as much pain as he knew how to inflict.

   Then Bobby’s arms were round him, hauling off and forcing the knife from his fist. “It’s him, Sam, it’s really him.”

   Sam felt a crack in the shell of his rage. A whisper of pain leaked through and he staggered. “Dean?”

   “I know.” That smile. “I look fantastic.”

No shapeshifter could replicate exactly those wrinkles fanning out from his left eye. No demon could imitate the choked mix of joy and confusion and love. No revenant could fill a room as Dean did. With one step Sam was in Dean’s arms. He was eight again, and the dangerous world was kept at bay by the pressure of his brother’s fierce embrace. He was fourteen again, and struggling not to cry as Dean ran soothing fingers through his hair. He was twenty-five again, inhaling the scent of leather and musk from his lover’s skin. He was twenty-six, and his world was wonderfully, miraculously made whole.

He pulled back to study Dean’s face, be sure it was real. That this wasn’t just another dream. In four months he’d forgotten some of the freckles, and misremembered the exact curve of Dean’s lower lip. It had to be real.

Ruby’s voice broke his concentration. He realised he’d been focusing on Dean’s mouth, leaning in, whilst she and Bobby were still in the room. He scrambled to get his brain in gear.

   “I should probably go,” Ruby said.

   “Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” Sam waited until she’d vanished into the bedroom and then turned to Bobby. “Would you give us a coupla minutes?”

   “Sure.” The older hunter smiled. “I’ll go grab some beers. I know I could use one.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sam rammed Dean back against the wall. No knife this time, only kisses, bright and sharp and urgent. His tongue stabbed into Dean’s mouth, tasting the heat of him, the life of him. Dean’s hands were in his hair, fingers curled, tugging hard, tipping his head back. Sam felt a silver shard of pain as Dean nipped at his neck. Fire flared out across his skin, burning up his breathing. He slipped his hands under Dean’s shirt and worshipped the heat of his brother’s soft, smooth, unscarred skin. Pushed up, bunching fabric, until he found the strong beat of Dean’s heart. He stilled, every cell concentrating on that rhythmic pulse.

   Dean lifted his head, eased his grip. One hand cupped Sam’s cheek. “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m here. I’m back.”

   “For how long?” Sam tried to keep his voice level; choked. “Is this a day pass?”

   “Don’t know.” Dean tucked a lock of Sam’s hair gently back behind his ear. “But I’ll fight tooth and nail to stay. They ain’t taking me away from you again, little brother. Not ever.”

That smile. Full of fierce determination and love and life. Sam drank it from his lips, making it a promise. _Never leave me again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I'd always planned to end the story with Dean coming back to life, but part of me thinks that the end of Chapter 3 is actually a stronger ending. Let me know what you guys prefer!
> 
> Also, as always, please consider leaving kudos. It makes writers happy. :-)


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